Tomatoes

So I retired.



I seem to keep track of the orbit of the planet not by months or seasons, but by the availability of fruits and vegetables.

You will see a theme here. Food. It keeps me going. I not only live to eat, it's my prime directive.

My seasons go kind of like this - Texas red grapefruit, fresh Asparagus, pears, fresh peas, raspberries, beets, bing cherries, home grown tomatoes, blueberries, Colorado peaches, fresh melons, honeycrisp apples, winter squash.

Thus abideth Pamela's seasons. But the greatest of these is probably home grown tomatoes.

Most of the year, tomatoes are like salt or pepper. An ingredient in many of my favorite things, like pasta sauce, pizza, salads, etc. They are there, but they don't elicit comment.

But in late July and August, you grab a bunch at the farmers' market or a roadside stand and suddenly you break out in song. You cry and you dance, and you make a damn fool of yourself.


The last two weeks at the Farmer's Market, the sellers of tomatoes were inundated. Folks were stepping on toes, tipping occupied baby strollers, and committing felonies just to get a basket of fresh tomatoes picked several hours earlier. I was there. I came out unscathed, fortunately. I got them home and stood over the sink just eating them one after the other.

I have two tomato plants on my patio. Every day I watch for the presence of orange lycopene or whatever makes it a proper tomato, and I know it's only several days away. Another reason to get up in the morning.